By the Secret Diner –
From my last review, did you figure out where Mrs. Secret Diner and I ate dinner? We were at Jaguar Moon at 97 S Oak St, Ventura. Do give them a try. Tell them The Secret Diner sent you.
Now for my latest review – can you figure out where we ate dinner?
I have a good friend with a useful theory, a go-to analogy that he busts out perhaps more often than he should. Pizza is his go-to metaphor for calibrating one’s level of satisfaction with anything. Sunsets, for example, are like pizza. They are all good, but some are better than others.
If given the space, he will extend the metaphor. Mountain sunsets are a deluxe pizza—trees, sounds, running water, wildlife. Winter sunsets are crisp, clean, classic like a margherita pizza. And everyone has a style and topping combination that fits their taste.
One of Mrs. Secret Diner’s and my culinary quests since coming west has been pizza. As my friend maintains, all pizza is good. However, we’ve yet to find a slice that scratches our itch. When we share with our Cali friends that we’ve not yet found a pizza we like, they are quick to offer up their recommendations, and we act on most. We confirm each time, our friend’s theory that all pizza is good, and yet we search for the pizza.
They will ask, well what kind of pizza do you like? That’s the rub; it’s hard to explain. The pie we are looking for doesn’t fall into an easily-defined style. It’s not the wide, foldable wedge of a New York style. Mrs. Diner maintains that deep-dish pizza isn’t pizza at all, but more lasagna or pot pie. These are fighting words to a Chicagoan.
Perhaps you caught the recent episode of Jimmy Kimmel’s show where he disparaged a very particular St. Louis pizza, Imo’s (pronounced eeemoes). Imo’s pizza is polarizing, and for many is the exception to the all-pizza-is-good theory. We do not share Kimmel’s scorn for the thin crust and processed cheese. In fact, the pizza we continue to search for shares the cracker-thin crust of an Imo’s pie. We are also looking for a sauce more savory than sweet, a deluxe or supreme that comes with sausage, green pepper, onion, olives—both black and green, mushrooms. Toppings piled high and tucked under a thick blanket of mozzarella scorched brown in the oven. Such pizzas are served in corner bars throughout the Midwest, usually balanced on a wire rack that elevates the dinner over plastic cups of Coke, garlic salads, and those bulbous shakers of parmesan and red pepper flakes. We have come to call this pizza “tavern-style.”
My dining companion and I set out on our most recent quest hopeful as our destination promised a “bar-style” pizza. These bar-styled pizzas are on the menu of a local brewery tucked into the corner of a building in one of Ventura’s industrial parks.
Inside, the eatery is open and bright with poured concrete floors, a high ceiling with exposed ductwork. There is plenty of seating in the L-shaped dining room: high-tops along the edge, and low, four-tops filling the floor space. On this particular Thursday afternoon, there were just a few other diners, two couples with their young children in tow. “I wish there were places like this when our kids were young,” Mrs. Diner commented. There is enough space for kids to get their wiggles out, a selection of books and board games to be checked out, and a selection of beers, hard teas, and wine for haggard parents.
Counter service is the game here, and Mrs. Diner and I ordered drinks: a brown ale for me and a hard tea for her. We ordered a starter of spicy meatballs, and the sausage, garlic confit pizza. Were we not after pizza, specifically, we might have gone for a smash burger or fried chicken sandwich. The loaded fries looked amazing, and I will be back for those.
As we waited for our food, Mrs. Diner commented on how accessible and accommodating the menu is for diners with dietary restrictions. The beers went down quickly and easily, and we had a second round by the time food arrived.
Three large meatballs bathed in marinara split easily under the fork—succulent, savory, and with a surprise Middle Eastern seasoning. Za’atar, maybe. The pizza arrived with beautiful dollops of labne, a creamy, Middle Eastern cheese. The crust had a wonderful, caramelized crunch. We had to thumb-wrestle for who got the last piece. No leftovers this night.
Mrs. Diner set off to check out the restrooms, and I ordered us a third round and closed the tab. My dining companion reported the restrooms were clean if institutional. We toasted another confirmation of the “all-pizza-is-good-pizza” theory, and were perhaps secretly happy that we hadn’t found the perfect California tavern-style just yet. More adventures ahead.
Think you know where we dined?
In each issue of the Ventura Breeze newspaper, Mrs. Secret Diner and I review a local eatery – can you guess where we ate? Put on your detective cap and check the next review, when all will be revealed!
